


your love is scaring me, no one has ever cared for me.

by orphan_account



Series: kissing strangers (in hawkins, indiana circa 1954) [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Billy Hargrove Has a Crush on Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Child Abuse, Getting to Know Each Other, Hawkins (Stranger Things), I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, Thanksgiving, billy is like, hella into steve but also confused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22739731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: smite me, he thinks, as he’s thrown out on his ass into the november cold in a wine-red button up missing the top three buttons and his tightest black jeans.so billy does the logical thing, seeing as it’s 32 degrees outside; he begins his trek across town to cornwallis, because after that dinner? fuck family.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: kissing strangers (in hawkins, indiana circa 1954) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1635049
Comments: 10
Kudos: 63





	your love is scaring me, no one has ever cared for me.

**Author's Note:**

> hello !! this was crossposted on my tumblr but flopped majorly so here we are,, 
> 
> this is just an excerpt/first draft of a scene from my 50s au that is a B I G wip (yes im accepting betas :( pls assist me im so bad at grammar/flowing scenes properly) 
> 
> this most likely won’t be the EXACT same scene once i finish the au (it’s all one giant oneshot tbh) but take this for now,, criticism is vvv much welcome !! <3

if ending up on the receiving end of neil’s fists was some sort of lottery, billy must’ve been one of the luckiest sons-of-bitches out there.

it’s a relatively calm week, almost too calm for billy’s liking; his family’s niceties leaving a bitter taste under his tongue and causing an unsettling swoon of his stomach. he flies under the radar that week, as much as he can while school’s out for the holidays. as much as he can when his house is full of some semblance of what you could call “life,” susan trying her best to wrangle together nightly family dinners. maxine kept well enough alone, avoiding billy like the plague — a stark contrast from _being_ a plague in billy’s life.

it’s a relatively calm week until the holidays creep up and all of a sudden it’s thanksgiving, and his house is lit with the aroma of cinnamon, nutmeg and that stomach swoon of his — which, turned out, was despair. not all too surprising, considering susan was plating dinner onto the same table her husband smashed billy’s face into just three weeks ago. 

he doesn’t know how it happens really, but then again, he never does. it just happens, like his interactions with neil are the equivalent of a circus tightrope act and billy has _awful_ balance. he teeters and wobbles and tries to regain his balance before he just _falls_.

he doesn’t know where it all went wrong. maybe it was the glance of disgust neil gave to the silver dangling from billy’s left earlobe, or the saint mary resting between his collarbones. maybe it was the way he mouthed off about how shit susan’s cooking was; just to smite her, just to smite neil. susan wasn’t a bad cook, not by any means. 

whenever she made hot chocolate she’d add a stick of cinnamon into the boiling milk — just like billy’s mom used to. 

sometimes billy looks at her and wants to see a mother, but the portrait of susan, graceful and smiling, always morphs into an ugly caricature of the saint mary. silver tears looking down her cheeks, hand reaching out to wrap around his jugular and the silver burns cool against his skin and billy is _suffocating._

sometimes billy looks at her and wants to see a mother. sometimes billy looks at her and sees _his_ mother. most times billy doesn’t look at her at all. 

the plate of food before him is taunting. 

why the fuck are they pretending, the four of them? _who are they kidding_ , dressed in their sunday best, sat around the table? _who are they fooling,_ who are they trying to pull a veil over the eyes of? 

billy knows they are no picture-perfect small-town family, nor will they ever be. susan is not his mother, maxine is not his sister, and neil hargrove is the farthest thing from a father billy will ever find in a twenty-five mile radius. 

the plate of food before him is a lie. it is a cover up, thin veil pulled over hawkins’ eyes, fooling passerby into thinking just for a split second: “what a lovely family.” 

at some point in his dozing, neil snaps for his attention. billy looks up and behind neil’s furrowed brow, creased forehead, popped veins along his neck and crawling up onto his jaw. billy looks _into_ him and the anger radiates like the house’s heating unit, lights a flame under his feet and chains him to his seat and calls him a coward. calls him a faggot, a pansy. a pussy, a worthless excuse of a son. 

the anger lights a flame under his feet and suddenly billy feels ten feet tall, effervescent and breathless and _alive_. he is full of anger and sadness and best, yet somehow worst of all, smite. 

_smite me,_ he thinks, as he tells susan she can’t cook for shit and that if she isn’t going to get a real job, housewife isn’t anywhere near the ideal choice for how to waste her time.

 _smite me,_ he thinks, as he shoves his chair back and stands up to leave. 

_smite me,_ he thinks, as neil’s calloused hand wraps around his bicep and _yanks_ backward. as he’s whirled around to face the dinner he has ruined, met with a slap to the face. 

“apologize to susan, boy. we talked about this. _responsibility and respect_.” neil’s words burn in his ears, fiercer than the fire under his feet, engulfing the dining room. 

_smite me_ , he thinks, as he tells neil to promptly “fuck _off_ ,” because who is neil to know anything about responsibility or respect? billy’s back meets the kitchen counter with a rough shove, air forced out of his lungs at lightning speed. from there it’s a blur, at some point in the night the side of his head met the kiss of a cabinet doorknob. susan is silent and shaking in her chair, maxine locked herself in her bedroom. his skin burns with neil’s fire in every place his hands meet, painting reds, blues, purples onto his skin. 

_smite me_ , he thinks, as he’s thrown out on his ass into the november cold in a wine-red button up missing the top three buttons and his tightest black jeans. his camaro’s keys are safely tucked into neil’s pocket, and he is once again ripped away from his baby for another week until he can convince susan to convince him to return them. 

so billy does the logical thing, seeing as it’s 32 degrees outside; he begins his trek across town to cornwallis, because after that dinner? _fuck family._

___

steve harrington had been badgering him for months, trying to help out whenever he got a glimpse of billy’s latest shiner or scar. he always told him to fuck right off, because billy is a lot of things (dignity aside), but he’s not about to lay down and be a pretty boy’s charity case. so he’s going to walk right up to that giant house and do what he does best — fuck up family time. 

it takes almost two hours, underestimating how large hawkins actually is when he’s used to passing it by, always reveling in the speed of his car. 

but wandering around on foot, in near total darkness, billy doesn’t entirely hate it. it’s cozy in a way he hasn’t ever known before, nor cares to understand very well. but he sort of sees the appeal, enjoys how quiet it can be. he shakes the thought, because god forbid billy ever consider a shithole hick town like hawkins his _home_. 

he finally reaches cornwallis and saunters up the block like his head hasn’t been dripping blood the whole trip, and like his nose doesn’t ache like hell, and that his stomach isn’t empty yet desperate to spill what little content it contains. every house is ridiculously large, so much room billy wouldn’t even begin to _know_ what to do with. it makes him scoff, knowing all those rich people must not have a worry on their minds on thanksgiving of all nights; nevertheless the kind of worry he carries on his shoulders constantly. every house has a packed driveway, lights on and curtains pulled back. 

every house, except the very one he was meaning to intrude upon. 

the harrington house looks dead, that’s the best way he can describe it. 

like no one has lived inside it in months. the shutters are drawn, curtains covering every window and lights clearly off. there is no car in the driveway, no clear disturbance of the land to indicate any life. shit, knowing what a hotshot harrington was, he and his family were probably off visiting family elsewhere — one big, lovey dovey family vacation for the scrapbooks. 

billy wonders how easy it must be to live like that, to have parents who dote on you and who care enough to not bash your face in. 

still, he gathers his thoughts and walks up the pathway to the two, giant front doors. he knocks once, a light rap of his knuckles against the wood. he knocks again, harder, not loud enough to wake anyone but enough to catch attention. he knocks one last time, a loud and abrupt pounding of his fist. his arm slumps down to his side as he lightly shakes his head — fucking ridiculous, the universe is clearly out to get him. the _one_ time he was willing to admit he _needed_ something from harrington, his stupid ass was off having the time of his life with his family. the thought goes straight to his saint mary pendant and it sears against his skin. 

as he’s halfway down the path, ready to head to the quarry and wait out the night there, staring down into the abyss of the water, he hears the door click and groan as it’s swung open. 

“billy? wh,, what the fuck’re you doin’ at my house?” 

billy turns around and all of a sudden feels lightheaded, maybe because he hit his head, maybe because of the sight before him. 

harrington is standing in the doorway. soft brown waves falling into his big doe eyes, reddened feverishly around the corners. he’s wearing a grey knit sweater and purple pajama shorts, his cheeks are positively flushed, and it’s making every mole dotting his face to pop out, screaming _“look at us, look at us.”  
_

and billy — _billy is definitely looking_. 

harrington is standing in the doorway surrounded by a halo of light streaming out of his house, and he’s looking straight into billy’s core like billy is all that matters. 

billy’s hands shake and he’s tempted to bolt down the street until his lungs ache even more. his feet are glued to the pavement, the fire lit under his heels has long since burnt out and all he feels is cold.

“oh shit is that-, blood? are you fuckin’ bleeding, oh my _god_ , get inside right now!” 

harrington’s voice snaps him out of his daze, and billy walks up to the doorframe and as he gets closer his breath hitches tight in his throat. 

_there_ , the universe says, _you are smitten._

**Author's Note:**

> u can find me on my harringrove tumblr // @vinyuls !!


End file.
